Expert of All Things Murdock
by ComicalEpiphanies
Summary: Foggy Nelson's knowledge of Matthew Murdock is put to the test when one night in their sophomore year, he is awoken by the horrible sound and sight of his roommate doing an imitation of an elephant and tapioca pudding. Inspired by a line/string of dialogue in drewbug's "Man Candy".


**A/N: As it says in the summary, this story was completely inspired by drewbug's story, "Man Candy". Ironically, drewbug and I were both inspired by the same line of dialogue in "Man Candy". In respect to the original author, I held off posting this until drewbug had posted his/hers. I swear on my honor as a broke college student that I have yet to read "Delirious", and so everything but the basic plot, characters, and situation is my own.**

 **On a related note, you do not need to read "Man Candy" to follow this story, but I highly recommend it. It's easily one of my favorites in this fandom (I've already read it three times since it was published...). You should also read "Delirious", drewbug's version of this situation. I know I'm going to as soon as this is posted.**

Expert of All Things Murdock

Franklin "Foggy" Nelson sprung up in his bed, suddenly wide-awake. For a moment, he wasn't sure what had yanked him from the glorious, stunning, Victoria Secret-esque blonde of his dreams, until he heard it again. It sounded like a cruel parody of an elephant trumpeting, or maybe a strangled hyena crying instead of laughing. It didn't take Foggy longer than a millisecond to find the source of the nightmare-inducing sound.

His roommate and best friend, Matthew Murdock coughed with the kind of force that Foggy would have associated with someone forcing up a lung. The sound made his own lungs ache and caused his heart to thunder into his throat.

Foggy sprung from his bed. He nearly crashed into the wall in his hurry to turn on the light. Almost before his eyes had adjusted to the flood of florescent light, he was next to his roommate's side.

"Matt!" Foggy shook his best friend's arm, hard. "Matt, wake up!"

Matt replied by coughing again. The cough was wet, scratchy and harsh. Foggy paled even more when he noticed Matt's face. It was flushed, but not in the happy-just-finished-exams-and-a-celebratory-beer kind of way. The parts of his face that weren't red were deathly pale, almost white, like the color of runny tapioca pudding. Foggy could see the beads of sweat rolling down Matt's face, and from the state of his pillow and sheets, Foggy would bet he'd been sweating like that for a long time. Foggy's insides tensed painfully.

"Come on Matt, wake up!" Foggy urged. Finally, Matt's eyes flickered, but didn't stay open.

"Fog?" Matt broke out into another fit of coughing. His whole body wracked with the effort. He tried to sit up, but Foggy pushed him back down.

"Don't try to get up, Matt. This isn't just a cold anymore, man," Foggy groped along Matt's desk for his phone. "I'm calling 911."

"No, no hospital," Matt replied, but his voice was weak and breathless, and quickly replaced with yet another wet cough.

Foggy wasn't listening. He'd found Matt's phone and was doing his best to dial single-handed. It was only after he'd succeeded that he noticed that Matt's eyes had shut again. "Matt?" Foggy shook his shoulder again, but this time, Matt didn't respond. He was unconscious.

"911, what is your emergency?" A woman's voice came out of the phone in Foggy's hand. He'd forgotten he'd press call.

"It's my roommate. He's coughing and he's really, really hot. He's sweating, and I think he's just lost consciousness. He was awake a second ago, but I don't know if he was totally aware. Please, send someone!" Foggy could feel that he was ranting, but he couldn't stop. This was the scariest thing that he could remember, even worse than when his mother started having his little sister on the kitchen floor when he was five. At least she'd been conscious then.

"Alright, sir. Just tell me where you are. I can send an ambulance to your location."

"Harmony Hall, Columbia University. That's 544 W. 110th Street. We're in room 514. Please hurry. He looks really bad."

"I've sent someone to your location. They can be there in about ten minutes. In the meantime, can you tell me your name?" The woman sounded too calm in Foggy's opinion. She should be panicking, like he was.

Foggy gulped and tried to mimic the dispatcher's tone. "Foggy—Franklin. Franklin Nelson."

"Okay, Mr. Nelson—"

"Foggy. Everyone calls me Foggy," he interrupted. He was staring at Matt, who'd started to toss and turn, but if his sheets were anything to go by, he'd merely resumed the movements.

"Foggy. What's your roommate's name?"

"Matt. Matthew Murdock. He's pre-law, like me. We're sophomores." Foggy flinched as Matt's hand came extremely close to hitting him on the nose. Matt coughed again, but otherwise didn't react to Foggy's motion.

"How old is he?"

Foggy looked across the room at his calendar, even though he was well aware of the year. He needed something else to focus on besides his best friend, who, in Foggy's opinion, appeared to be getting worse every second he spent on the phone. "20. He just turned 20."

"Does he have any history of breathing problems?"

Foggy shook his head. "I don't think so. He's not all that chatty, though. Maybe when he was little? Not since I've known him, though. We've been roommates for a year and a couple of months."

"Okay, Foggy," the voice on the end of the line replied, "EMS is about three minutes away. Can you send someone to meet them at the door?"

Foggy shook his head again, this time more fervently. "No. I'm the only one up, I think. The walls here are pretty thick."

"Does it look like you can leave Matt alone for a few minutes? It will be faster if you could meet the EMTs and show them to your room."

Foggy swallowed. He was caught between wanting to stay by Matt's side, even just to make sure he didn't die right there in their room, and wanted to make sure help got there as soon as humanly possible. "Fine," he said after what felt like an eternity. "I'll go meet them. But what about Matt?"

"The ambulance is almost to you now. The best thing you can do for him is to make sure they get to him as fast as possible."

Foggy nodded. "Okay, I'm going downstairs now."

"Good. Now, Foggy, I've got to go. Help is on its way, I promise."

Foggy wanted to burst into tears, but he clinched his teeth and allowed the dispatcher to hang up. He took one last look at Matt, willing him to hold on for just a little longer, before he grabbed his jacket and quickly left the room.

He dashed down the hall, and pressed the call button for the elevator. He waited exactly two seconds before he couldn't take it any longer and nearly ran to the stairwell. His lungs were killing him by the time he reached the third floor landing, but he didn't have time for the stitch in his side. He didn't let himself think about Matt beyond praying he didn't get worse in the short time it would take for him to return with EMS.

After another lifetime, Foggy reached the ground floor and flew out of the stairwell and into the atrium. Out of the window, he could see the bright lights of the ambulance pulling up in front of the building. With renewed energy, Foggy bolted out of the door

"He's upstairs. Fifth floor. He's burning up, and he keeps coughing. He woke up for a few seconds, but then he was out again." Foggy wanted to grab one of the EMTs by the arm and drag them to Matt's side. They seemed to be taking forever, gathering what looked like oxygen and a big duffle bag and was that one of those things they use on TV to shock a person's heart? Was Matt's heart going to stop? Foggy's knees would have given out under him, had he had the energy.

"Lead the way," the tall, black man with the oxygen tank said. Foggy didn't waste any more time. He swiped his badge, thanking whatever gods had been paying attention that his keys had been in his jacket, and held the door open for the three men.

Foggy led them to the stairs. "Fifth floor," he repeated.

"There an elevator in the building?" The youngest man asked, looking up at the never-ending steps.

"Yeah, but I thought it would take too long."

The white EMT smiled. "It'll be faster than trying to lug thirty pounds of oxygen up five flights of stairs, trust me. When there's an elevator, we take it."

Foggy wanted to argue, but he could see the man's point. He hurried to the elevator and pressed the call button. As luck would have it, the doors opened after only a few seconds.

The three EMTs and Foggy filed in and Foggy pressed the button for the fifth floor. As the door closed, the white man said, "My name is Scott, I'm a paramedic, and this," he gestured to the black man "is my partner, Gordon, an EMT. The young guy here is our third rider, fresh from his EMT certification, Charlie. What can you tell us about your friend?"

Foggy spared each man a nervous nod. He really didn't care what they were called as long as they helped his best friend. Foggy had never had much luck with people. They thought he was funny, sure, but he'd never been Mr. Popular, and most of his friends were in-school friends only. At the end of the school day, he spent most of his time with his huge extended family, or studying to be the second Nelson to graduate from college. As sad as it was, at almost 20 years old, Matt was Foggy's first real friend. The thought of losing him made Foggy's stomach twist into an even tighter knot than before. To his relief, the elevator doors opened at their floor.

Foggy spoke just to keep himself from thinking about losing his one friend, even as he led them to his and Matt's room. "His name is Matt. He woke me up about—" Foggy cast his eyes around as if he could find a clock, but even if he could, he didn't know when he'd gotten up—"thirty (?) minutes ago? I don't know. He was coughing and tossing around. When I got to him, he looked like he was going to die." Foggy's throat closed, and to his horror, he could feel the pressure of tears behind his eyes.

"We're going to do our best to help your friend," Scott replied as they reached the dorm room. He nodded at Gordon and gestured for Charlie to follow him into the room. Gordon held back and pulled Foggy away from the door. Foggy wanted to fight, to go into his room and make sure they were doing what they could to help Matt, but Gordon had somehow managed to position himself in such a way as to prevent Foggy from seeing over his shoulder, let alone getting passed him. Foggy resigned himself to standing out in the hall, but he kept trying to glance around Gordon. Funny, Foggy couldn't stop himself from thinking, Gordon hadn't seemed so large before.

"What is your name, son?" Gordon asked. His voice sounded conversational. Foggy wasn't sure whether he appreciated it or not. Foggy thought Gordon should be a little bit more frantic. Was everyone just this calm, or was Foggy just that jumpy? Suddenly, Foggy wasn't so sure.

"Foggy. Or Franklin. My mother calls me Franklin. Everyone else calls me Foggy. Nelson. My last name is Nelson," Foggy replied, distractedly. He was still trying to look around Gordon's form. Gorgon shifted a bit and Foggy could see a little more into the room. He was grateful for the movement. He could now see that the emergency responders had turned on the light, and Scott was inserting something into Matt's mouth while Charlie looked to be doing something with the oxygen tank.

"Would you rather I call you Franklin, Foggy, or Mr. Nelson?"

"Foggy. Foggy is fine." Truthfully, Foggy didn't care. His best friend was now breathing through a mask, and Scott had his stethoscope thingy out and was listening to Matt's lungs.

"Okay, Foggy. What are Matt's allergies, do you know?" Gordon still sounded conversational. Foggy gritted his teeth and made an effort to focus on the EMT.

"I don't know. I know he's sensitive to wool, and he hates cats and sneezes around dogs. He hates garlic too. I ate garlic shrimp in the room our first year. He doesn't usually comment on what I eat, though I can tell when he doesn't like the smell. His nose kind of curls up at the top, you know? Anyway, that time, he had me eat the shrimp outside and when I got back, he'd opened the one window we had in the room, all the way. He wouldn't close it, even though it was the middle of January. I haven't eaten garlic around him since." Foggy couldn't stop the ramble, and luckily, Gordon didn't seem to mind. He simply nodded and moved to his next question.

"What about medication? What kind of medicine does Matt take?"

Foggy shook his head. "Nothing. I know he's got a prescription for sleeping pills in his desk, but I've never seen him take them. He doesn't sleep too well, every so often, you see, but he once told me he hates how the pills muffle the world. Those were his exact words."

At that point, Foggy heard Charlie ask Scott if he should consider the possibility that Matt was taking drugs. Foggy's heart leapt into his chest and he nearly barreled passed Gordon, the EMT's large muscles and extra six inches of height be damned. Then he heard Charlie continue, "He's not reacting to light. His pupils are completely dilated."

Foggy almost wanted to laugh, and in any other situation, he might have done so. "Matt's blind. He was in an accident when he was little. His eyes always look like that," he nearly shouted to the two emergency responders. "See?" He gestured to Matt's cane, propped as always in its home in the corner.

"Got it," Scott replied, returning to his work doing something Foggy wasn't sure about. "Charlie, go down and get the stretcher. We gotta get him to Memorial."

Foggy's throat tensed for the countless time that night. "The hospital? Is it really that bad?"

Gordon put a hand on Foggy's shoulder in what should have been a comforting manner, but in his current state, wasn't all that comforting. Foggy watched from the sidelines as Charlie returned with a giant stretcher, the kind he'd only seen on TV. The three responders made quick work of transferring his best friend to the stretcher. Foggy could see they'd stuck a needle into Matt's arm. He knew Matt would have never allowed that had he been awake. Matt didn't like needles. He'd refused to get a flu shot with Foggy this year, or last. Maybe if he had, they wouldn't be in this situation.

Foggy would have woken up tomorrow morning (or was it today? Foggy still hadn't looked at a clock) and it would be like any other morning. Matt would have walked through the door, fresh from his shower, likely after having already gone to the gym. Foggy would ask his customary, "How the hell did you get to the gym?" and Matt would respond as he always did with his damn "I have my ways" smirk as he hung the wet towel on its hook on his closet door. Foggy would growl into his pillow and Matt would toss his own pillow eerily close to Foggy's head to signal it was time for the less active of the duo to get up and face the world.

Foggy was so lost in the what-should-have-been, he was surprised when suddenly he found himself outside again, this time with his shoes in one hand and Matt's cane and glasses in the other, watching as the emergency personnel loaded Matt into the ambulance.

"I can come too, right?" Foggy wasn't really asking as much as demanding. "I'm the only family he's got. He hates hospitals."

Charlie appeared to look at Scott and Gordon for permission, so Foggy did the same. He would never be able to describe the relief he felt when the paramedic nodded. He slammed his feet into his shoes and scrambled up into the ambulance, squishing himself to sit on the bench beside Matt and next to Scott. It was a tight fit, the kind that on any other day would have made Foggy a little self-conscious about his not-huge-but-noticeable girth and his morning, pre-toothpaste breath. As it was, if the thoughts crossed his mind, Foggy didn't register them.

Charlie closed the doors and quickly reappeared at the front of the ambulance and they were off.

Scott started taking Matt's vitals almost before everyone was in. Gordon, positioned in the captain's seat at Matt's head, adjusted what appeared to be Matt's oxygen flow before turning his attention back to Foggy.

"So Foggy, besides Matt's blindness, what other medical history does he have?"

Foggy shrugged and tore his eyes away from watching Scott take Matt's pulse. "I don't know. I think he had his tonsils out when he was little, but that's it. All I know for sure is that he was in an accident when he was nine. It was a big deal. He's the kid who saved that blind guy in that huge accident in Hell's Kitchen eleven years ago. He got a ton of some sort of toxic liquid right in the eyes, and so now he's blind."

"That was him?" Scott had paused, and was now looking at Foggy. "That was my third day on the job. I'll never forget it."

"Did you treat Matt?"

Scott shook his head. "My partner and I arrived later. We got there just in time to see him, or I'm assuming it was him, being loaded into another rig. It was a mess out there. At least twenty cars in that accident. My first mass event." Scott went back to recording Matt's vitals, clearly caught in his memories.

Gordon spared him a glance but quickly returned to his interview. "When was the last time he ate?"

Foggy shrugged. "Dinner, I think, around eight? He wasn't feeling well yesterday. At least, I figured he wasn't. He's not one to share. We had psychology of law yesterday morning. It's the only class we have together, and he kept spacing out. That's really not like him, you see. He's the best student in our year. He was coughing a little bit then, but he kept saying he was fine. 'A little cold, Fog,' he told me. Anyway, we didn't see each other until I got back to our room around seven. He was at his desk, but he wasn't reading. He's always studying, you see. He looked like crap, but he said he was fine. I brought him some split pea soup, because that's just about the only thing he'll eat when he's under the weather, I've found, and I got him to eat a little bit of it, but then I had to go to my Punjabi study group, and I didn't get back until ten thirty or something. He was asleep by then, which I thought was weird, because Matt rarely goes to sleep before I do, but I figured he was planning on sleeping it off. Sorry, what was the question?"

The movement of the rig as it trundled down the streets of New York was lulling Foggy into a haze. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and Foggy was beginning to feel his lack of sleep and his race down the stairs.

"No, that's good. You answered it and my last question all in one go." Gordon smiled. He took the paper Scott offered and reached around for the radio mounted above his head as he spoke. He located the speaker and held it to his mouth. "Memorial? This is Central S-1435 with a 10-12."

A response came almost at once. It crackled along the line. "This is Memorial. Go for report."

"We've got a 20 year old male with bilateral medium rales and diminished lung sounds. Temp 104.3 and rising. BP 125/54. HR 134. Respirations 24, shallow, tachy, labored. Diaphoretic x3. Patient is unconscious, administered 15L/min high flow and started an IV of saline. ETA 8 minutes. Transporting at code 2," Gordon reported, reading mostly off the paper Scott had handed him.

Foggy wasn't sure what all of those words meant, but he knew Matt's temperature wasn't good. Matt wasn't necessarily obsessed with his health, but Foggy wasn't oblivious. Matt was _fit_. He watched what he ate and he was no stranger to the gym, unlike Foggy. Matt was supposed to be in the best of health. He was 20 years old, for goodness sake! And athletic! Foggy couldn't remember much from his health class in high school, but he was pretty sure Matt's heart was supposed to be beating slower than that. Foggy's worry spiked again.

"He's going to be okay, right?" Foggy squeezed out.

Gordon looked over the speaker in his hand at Foggy. "We're doing our best. He's a strong man, in excellent health otherwise, from what I can see. His chances are good. The docs where we're taking him are some of the best in the city."

Foggy forced himself to nod. He had the unexpected urge to hold Matt's hand. It was stupid, Foggy thought, but he knew Matt hated new, unfamiliar situations. Being in an ambulance, stuck with a needle, heading toward a hospital, had to qualify as a new situation. Or perhaps, Foggy amended, not a new situation, given Matt's history, but at least uncomfortable. Foggy also knew that Matt only really grasped his arm when he felt uncomfortable or overwhelmed. Matt might have tried to hide it, but Foggy took pride in the fact that he knew his best friend better than anyone else in the world. Matt would have liked to Foggy to be close to him right now. With that thought, Foggy grasped Matt's hand. So what if Scott or Gordon thought he was a poof; Matt needed him.

Suddenly, they were there. Matt was being pulled out of the ambulance, and Foggy had to let go of his hand. He watched as Matt was wheeled into the hospital. He was steered into the waiting room, where a nurse handed him a stack of forms. He looked down at them and with another glance toward where they'd taken Matt, he started filling them out best he could.

Matt's medical insurance—he had student insurance, Foggy thought he remembered Matt saying, but Matt hated hospitals and doctors, so maybe he didn't? Foggy was almost positive all Columbia students had to have insurance, so he put that down.

Family medical history? Foggy had no idea. The only thing Matt had ever told him was that his mother wasn't around when he was little and his father had died when Matt was ten. His father had been a boxer, so maybe he could say he had a family history of concussions? Foggy's scientific knowledge was limited, but he was pretty sure concussions weren't genetic. Stupidity in the willingness to get concussions maybe qualified as genetic, and Matt was certainly that. Matt had little regard for personal safety, which Foggy could vouch for. There were times when Matt forgot to bring his cane to the bathroom or when he took out the trash. Foggy was sure one of these days he'd trip over some asshole's wet towel or a crumpled coke can and someone would find him with his skull cracked open. Matt also tutored disadvantaged students in the "tough" neighborhoods after school. Foggy was almost waiting for the day when he'd get that dreaded call from the police saying Matt had been mugged on his way back from the after-school center.

Yeah, Matt was foolhardy, but Foggy had a feeling that was not the kind of information the doctors were looking for. He left that section blank and moved on.

Finally, after what must have been hours because the sun was starting to come up, a doctor appeared in front of Foggy. Foggy nearly jumped in surprise. He'd almost managed to fall asleep, even in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

"Foggy Nelson? You came in with Matthew Murdock?" the doctor asked.

Foggy cleared his throat and sat up straight. "Yeah. He's my roommate. Is he okay?"

The doctor nodded and her mouth perked a little at the corners. "My name is Dr. Hart, I'm the doctor who's been treating Matt. His fever got up to almost a 105, but we've managed to get it down. He's got a nasty case of pneumonia, but he seems to be reacting well to the antibiotics."

"Is he conscious? Can I see him?" Foggy stood up.

Dr. Hart gave Foggy a once-over and seemed to reach the conclusion that Foggy wasn't going anywhere until he was sure Matt was going to make a full recovery. She nodded. "Follow me."

She led Foggy down the hall and into a room with four beds. Only Matt's was occupied.

Foggy was immediately struck by how pale and small Matt looked. His dark hair, somewhat matted against his forehead, was in stark contrast with his skin. There was an IV in his arm, hooked up to what Foggy could only assume was more saline and some sort of reader on his finger. Another machine was monitoring his heart and respiratory rate along with his temperature. The sight was almost scary. Foggy didn't like seeing his normally strong best friend like that.

Foggy dragged a chair from the corner over to Matt's bedside and made himself as comfortable as he could.

Dr. Hart glanced at the chart hanging off of Matt's bed and then looked back at Foggy. "He'll probably be asleep for a little while longer. He got a little active earlier during the CT scans. We had to give him something to calm him down." Foggy had to work to hide the resulting flinch. If Matt hated his sleeping pills, he probably wouldn't fell too well about being given drugs to knock him out. Dr. Hart continued without appearing to notice Foggy's reaction. "Someone will be back in a little bit to make sure he's still responding to the antibiotics."

Foggy didn't bother watching as she left the room. He was focused on Matt. "So," he said, to distract himself from the horrible sound of the machine that was beeping with Matt's heart. "You should have gone to Health Services when I told you, buddy. What did I tell you?" Foggy paused to allow Matt to respond, even though he knew he wouldn't. "I said you were going to end up here if you didn't suck it up and face them, but what did you say?"

You said, and I quote, 'It's nothing, Foggy. I've had worse colds.' Well, man, where does this fall on your scale of worst colds? Because it falls pretty high up there on mine." Foggy sighed. "Look, I get it. You don't like doctors. Who does? But, buddy, we both know you'd been feeling like crap for way longer than you think I did."

Jesus, Matt," Foggy continued after a moment. "Do you think I'm blind? No pun intended," he added, "I think I know you better than anyone else. You _must_ be blind, because I see everything. I saw your whole body has been aching for at least a week. And it hasn't been the kind of ache you get when you spend too much time at the gym. That kind of ache you enjoy. I see it, you know. You get this kind of determined look in your stance when you feel that kind of pain. Like you've fought a bull and won a side of beef. No, this time you looked like you'd been hit by a bus and didn't catch enough of the license plate to tell the police." Foggy snorted.

"When are you going to trust me, Matt? I told you—" Foggy stopped abruptly. Matt had groaned. "Matt?"

"So loud…" Matt mumbled. He turned his head. "Off. Stop. Stop it," he growled. Matt's back arched and his hands balled into fists. "Hurts!" Matt hadn't opened his eyes, but his heart was thundering. The machine that had been beating evenly only seconds before was going crazy as Matt started to thrash.

"Matt!" Foggy cried. "Matt, calm down!"

"Stop yelling!" Matt replied. "So itchy. So loud…" Matt's voice was fading in and out. He wasn't making any sense. A nurse appeared out of nowhere.

"He's still supposed to be asleep. I can't give him anything for another hour." She turned to Foggy. "I'll get Dr. Hart, but you'll have to calm him down until she arrives."

Foggy tried to reach Matt's hand in the vague hope that his touch would get Matt to settle. His roommate was thrashing now, and his breathing, which had just begun to improve, was hitching. Foggy could tell he was going to start coughing again. Foggy was suddenly hit with the irrational feeling that if Matt started coughing again he would never stop. He wrenched Matt's hand and placed it on his left upper arm.

Matt didn't know Foggy's face—he'd once told Foggy that touching his face would conjure no picture of his features in his mind; touch didn't work like that, Matt had explained once when they were both barely sober, no matter what the movies always said—but Foggy knew that the one part of him that Matt knew as well as Foggy knew Matt's face was his upper arm. It was the thing that Matt reached for in a crowed room, in a new, unfamiliar environment. Matt knew that Foggy's arm would always mean that he was not alone. At least, Foggy prayed to God that Matt knew that.

Almost at once, Matt's back relaxed and his heart rate slowed.

"Well done, Mr. Nelson." Dr. Hart had returned. "It looks like you've got him under control." She checked his IV and continued, "If he acts up again, call the Jackie, the nurse who was in here before. She can give him another shot of sedative. We've got to make sure he gets the full dose of the antibiotic. He can't be knocking out his IV."

"Right, I will," Foggy replied. But he knew he'd not allow her to give Matt more sedative. One dose was enough. He made a silent vow that he'd make sure Matt didn't pull out the IV.

That satisfied Dr. Hart and she left a few seconds later. Matt's grip tightened around Foggy's forearm and Foggy had to stifle a gasp of pain. When had Matt gotten so strong? Despite the pain, Foggy made no effort to remove his arm. Instead, he went back to his monologue.

"You're lucky it is Saturday, you know. I love you like a brother, but no way would I call your Spanish teacher to tell her you were stupid enough to land yourself in the hospital instead of listening to your genius roommate. She'd probably ask me to say it in Spanish. I doubt I could say it in Punjabi, let alone in Spanish. She's an odd duck, buddy. Not like you're an odd duck, though. You're a good odd duck; she's just strange."

Foggy yawned. Matt's hospital bed was starting to look very comfortable. It had been a very, very long night, with way more adrenaline highs and lows than Foggy could count. He put his head down in the space between himself and Matt and positioned his arm in such as way to make sure Matt could still keep a hold of it. He'd just close his eyes for a minute. Just a minute…

Foggy jerked awake when Matt suddenly bolted straight up in his bed.

"Where am I?" Matt was yelling. Or maybe he wasn't yelling. Foggy wasn't quite sure. The only thing Foggy knew was that Matt was speaking way louder than he'd ever heard him speak before. Matt rarely spoke loudly. Even when he was projecting his voice across a lecture hall to ask the professor something, his voice was soft. Now it was harsh and panicking. "Wh-what is happening? Where am I?"

Foggy grasped Matt's shoulders, and Matt flinched so badly, he nearly banged into the back wall. Foggy instantly pulled his hands away. "Matt, you're in a hospital."

"The man? Where's my dad? Why is everything so loud? Why is it so dark?" Matt was mumbling, but he was still almost shouting. Where was the nurse, Dr. Hart, anyone?

"Matt, can you hear me?" Foggy tried again. He was surpassing panic and entering into mania. What was going on with his best friend?

"Turn on the lights! Why is everything so itchy? Where am I? What's going on? The truck! What about the man? Where—"

"That was years ago, remember?" Foggy wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing, but Matt was thrashing around again. He knew he had calm him down, or Dr. Hart or Nurse What's-Her-Name were going to shoot Matt back up to la-la land. Matt couldn't take another round of that, Foggy was sure. "Matt?"

"It's so loud! Why is it so loud? Is that me? Am I so loud? Where am I?" Matt was tossing his head back and forth. "Why does it smell like blood in here? Am I bleeding? Is that alcohol? What—" Matt's body was swiftly wracked with a tremendous, hacking cough.

Foggy was shivering. His eyes were wide and he could almost feel rather than hear someone in the hall prepping a needle of some sedative for Matt. He knew orderlies were on their way. There must be someone else in the room, barking orders, but he couldn't hear them. All he knew was that he had to calm Matt down.

"Matt, please listen to me. Focus on me. Can you do that?"

"Who? Where am I? What is going on?"

"Matt, focus, please. You're in a hospital. You're really sick. Remember? You didn't want me to bring you the hospital, but you scared me, Matt. You scared me. I was sure you were going to die. Do you remember?" Foggy didn't both stopping the tears. He wasn't sure what they were for, but he couldn't be bothered to stop them.

"Foggy?" Matt's hand inched out, and Foggy quickly lifted it to his forearm.

"Yeah, Matt. You're okay," Foggy replied.

"What's going on? Why is everything so loud? Why does it smell so bad in here?" Matt asked again. But this time he didn't sound so panicked. His voice was raspy from the multiple coughing fits, but it was otherwise almost normal.

"Because you were yelling, buddy. It's bound to get loud when someone yells." Foggy forced cheer into his tone, even as his heart was still thumping in his throat.

"It was loud before," Matt answered.

Foggy shrugged, even as he watched the nurse with the syringe of knock-out juice get waved away by Dr. Hart. He wanted to breath a sigh of relief. "I don't know, then. Is it still loud?"

"Yeah, but it's better now. It's hard to focus. You're the only thing steady, Fog. Why is that?" Matt sounded exhausted now. Foggy didn't blame him.

Before Foggy could think of an answer, Matt continued. "I'm really itchy. I'm wrapped in sandpaper."

Foggy wanted to snort, but held it back. "Not everyone has silk-sheets, Matt."

"They should. These feel horrible. I'm all itchy."

Dr. Hart chose that moment to join the conversation. "That's probably a result of the antibiotics. We had to give you a very high dose. A side-effect can be rashes. You've got a particularly bad case of pneumonia, Mr. Murdock."

Matt jumped at the sound of her voice. Foggy was almost surprised. Matt almost never missed noticing when someone is in the room, the exception being when he was totally absorbed in his studies. Which, Foggy had to admit, could happen somewhat frequently, but not often enough for Foggy to get used to seeing him shocked. Foggy could suddenly truly understand what Matt meant when he said drugs dulled the world.

"That explains a lot, I guess." Matt coughed again, and then brought the hand not grasped around Foggy's arm to his face. It took Foggy a second to realize what he was looking for, but then Foggy reached into his jacket pocket. Without a word, he put Matt's glasses in his hand. They'd gotten a bit bent in his pocket, and there was a smudge on the left lens, but Matt didn't seem to notice or care. He slid them on his face immediately. Foggy could see Matt relax almost at once.

Foggy couldn't help but smile. For the first time since yesterday morning, Foggy relaxed. Matt may still have been coughing in a parody of an elephant, be as pale and clammy as his next-door-neighbor's tapioca pudding, and be talking like an asthmatic toad, but he was going to be fine. After all, Foggy was the expert of all things Matthew Murdock.


End file.
